“God gave us memories so that we might have roses in December.”
Visits to my mother’s house were a fun filled, biweekly affair. We would spend the entire day in the quaint little village (not so quaint now), where each house stands in several acres of land and rubber trees and pineapple plantations dominate the scene. We used to meet up with my aunt and cousins at the bus stop, and the fun started from that point. My mother and aunt would reminisce about their childhood and home, and though we had heard their tales many times, we hung on every word. (Funny how most women are fiercely proud of their ancestral homes, especially after marriage, and nothing else feels so perfect.)
After getting off the bus, we would walk to the house, with my mom pointing out trees and birds, and telling me their names. Having spent many years of my childhood in the gulf, I used to be filled with wonder at the way everyone else could name a bird just by hearing its song, how every family in the area seemed